


Transnasal Craniotomy

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [21]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: College, Finals week AKA destroyer of souls and GPAs, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Post-Canon, Sort of sick fic????, The Author Does Not Endorse Adam Parrish's Unsafe Choices in This Fic, The Barns, i guess???????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 06:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: Adam would much rather die in Ronan’s arms than on the aged linoleum floors of his dorm.Godhe’s become such a romantic.





	Transnasal Craniotomy

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by an anon on Tumblr: "hmm could you write Adam coming home for winter break and just Crashing bc finals are the worst?"
> 
> Changed it to summer break, because #seasonal.

There’s that theory that humans only ever use 10% of their brain at any given time. If that were true, Adam Parrish would use the 90% of his brain undamaged by 7 days of absolute academic hell to theorize why spring semester feels 127 times harder than fall. 

Unfortunately, MythBusters and a whole variety of actual neuroscientists proved that myth to be, well,  _ a myth,  _ which means Adam is stuck with a brain that feels like it was blended up and drain out through his nose like one of those  _ transnasal craniotomy  _ procedures Ancient Egyptians did on mummies.

Which, why the  _ fuck _ does he remember that term but couldn’t remember the goddamn difference between “waxing” and “waning” moons for his  _ damn Astronomy final _ two hours ago.

The masochistic part of him wants to calculate the total amount of sleep he’s gotten over the past 168 hours, but that would require math and he stopped being able to do that at least 45 minutes ago (probably before then; he’s really not confident that he wrote anything more than incoherent scribbles on that Astronomy final, like he’s that girl from that awful Nicholas Cage movie Ronan made him watch where she writes all the random numbers that end up being the dates of major tragedies. Except the only tragedy he’s predicting is his embarrassing grade on this final.

 _Knowing_? That’s the name. But again, _why does he remember this useless shit.)_

Whatever amount of not-sleep he’s gotten, he reckons it’s hideously unhealthy. Even when he was newly deaf, newly single, and newly possessed by a forest, he didn’t feel as awful as he feels right now. Crushed. Destroyed. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually wrecked (which is saying something for a fucking  _ agnostic) _ . He reached the so-sleep-deprived-you’re-nauseated level at least two days ago. Maybe three. Reckon it depends on how you’re counting “days”: if each is a full 24 hour cycle or each is the time segmented by ineffective power naps and microsleeps.

Whatever. Time is relative and none of this matters because every second is one second closer to death or maybe just vomiting the coffee he microwaved this morning into a bush outside the student union (really, though, is there any difference between those two things?)

The only thing keeping Adam upright and vaguely alive is the knowledge that no matter how bad he did on anything, he will still pass it all, and will still have his scholarships, and will still have a fair margin of buffer in his GPA just in case.

Also, in a few hours he’ll be able to collapse in Ronan’s arms. He’d much rather die in Ronan’s arms than on the aged linoleum floors of his dorm.  _ God  _ he’s become such a romantic.

It’s early May and absolutely stifling inside and out, which makes carrying the minimal contents of his dorm room to the Hondoyota far more unpleasant than it should be. It’s by the grace of some higher power that Adam’s roommate managed to get a few more hours of sleep than he did, and is able to carry things without his  _ entire body  _ convulsing from effort.

He manages to eat an apple, which is by far the healthiest thing he’s put in his body since mid-April, and drink another cup of coffee, which he immediately regrets.

He showers before he leaves, because he’s been neglecting personal hygiene for the past two days (since you can’t study in the shower without laminating your flashcards, and his finite printing money doesn't cover such luxuries) and he’s pretty sure he smells like rancid coffee, printer ink, and defeat.

The administrator at the end-of-year dorm key collection table gives him a thrice-over and hands him the unopened bottle of water she’d obviously brought for herself, which means despite the cold shower he still looks as bad as he feels. She tells him to have a relaxing summer. He nods and stumbles to his car.  

The shitbox doesn't have AC, so Adam keeps the windows down as he zooms along I-81, and the violent, roaring wind is exactly the continuous slap in the face he needs to keep him from keeling over at the wheel. Water is just another of life’s necessities he hasn’t had enough of over the past few days, so he’s stuck sweating coffee and the last dregs of his soul-crushing ambition out every available pore, rendering his shower useless and his time wasted, and he  _ knows,  _ he just  _ fucking knows,  _ that the first thing Ronan is going to tell him once he arrives is how awful he smells.   

It’s too hot. He’s too tired. This drive is too damn long. It’s not a surprise when the migraine hits him just past the one-third mark: like overzealous middle school tuba player, it starts with an odd buzzing in the back of his skull until it gets the  _ embouchure _ just right and then  _ slams  _ into his head in a cacophonous eruption of blinding pain.

He has to pull over twice to vomit.

Five more hours. That’s all. Five more until he can finally,  _ finally  _ sleep. Four more. Three. Two and a half. One and a quarter.

The last hour is the worst. He’s so close. Can practically smell the Barns through the open window. At this point, he’s running purely on spite. His body thinks it can tell him what to do? Thinks a little  _ throbbing headache  _ and  _ puking  _ and  _ cataclysmic sleep deprivation  _ are gonna stop him? Ha. As if the crushing weight of classism and societal expectations and self-loathing hadn’t taught him some goddamn  _ endurance. _

The back road to the Barns has never felt so damn long. And then the trees part and cracked pavement gives way to gravel and he’s  _ home,  _ thank  _ god. _

The Shitbox wheezes into its usual spot next to the beautiful BMW, grumbling up dust and coughing out the last fumes from its frighteningly empty gas tank.

He turns off the car and the poor thing creaks and sags and is probably not going to run for the next week. Maybe ever again. Adam sure isn’t going anywhere for a long time after this. Reckon that dying in Ronan’s arms seems like a whole lotta work right about now. What is he just died right here? Inside the shitbox, among his meager possessions like a mummy in his tomb.

_ Thud. _

Chainsaw’s claws scrape across the metal hood of the car, like aggressively strident flutes in the awful orchestra that’s settled in Adam’s head for an extended performance season. He wants to puke again.

Ronan--at least, he hopes it’s Ronan--knocks on the door.

“Hey.”

Adam tries to make words but his tongue feels like putty and moving is a lot of work so he just groans.

Ronan flicks the hollow of his cheeks. Adam flinches and grunts. “You planning on dying in here?”

As a matter of fact,  _ yes,  _ he  _ is.  _ Better here in this car than face-first in the gravel.  

Ronan snorts. The crunch of gravel, the rustle of clothes, and when Adam manages to pry his eyes open Ronan is kneeling next to the car, arms crossed atop the window ledge and chin held in his fist, waiting. He quirks a brow.

“Shit,” is all Adam can manage.

“Hi to you, too.”

Adam grumbles something. “Huh?” Ronan asks, but Adam can’t remember what he was trying to say so he just shakes his head and grimaces against another wave of pain.

Ronan pushes off from his knees to his heels, and stands with a sigh and a loud creak in his knee. He unlocks the door and yanks the rusted hinge open. “C’mon, shithead,” he sighs, and Adam lets himself be dragged from the car to his feet.

Chainsaw hops onto his shoulder and croaks in his ear. Opal appears from God-knows-where and headbutts his legs hard enough that he stumbles to the side. “Brat,” Ronan scoffs. Opal babbles away in some weird hybrid of Latin-Dream-Bird-English, which renders all four languages completely incoherent, and also, hurts like hell to try and parse through. Adam settles for as much of a smile as he can manage and ruffles her hair. She screeches with delight, which hurts just as much as the LatDreBriNglish.

“Hey, cut it out!” Ronan snaps. She turns and glares at him, face scrunched up and tiny fists tight like she’s trying to kill him with her mind. Ronan glares back, just as lethal. “Go get your shit out of the field before it storms.”

Opal hisses. Ronan bares his teeth. Dominance is determined. Opal kisses Adam’s wrist, kicks Ronan in the shin, and runs off.

“That’s gonna leave a bruise!” he shouts after her. She turns, blows a raspberry in his general direction, and then keeps on towards the field. “Fucking shit-for-brains  _ kid,” _ Ronan spits, hopping on his uninjured leg.

Adam rubs his knuckles against his temple as another blinding spike of agony rips through his brain.

“Migraine?” Ronan asks, laying a gentle hand on Adam’s shoulder.

Adam nods.

“Let’s get you out of the fucking sun, then.”

Ronan leads him through the freshly-trimmed grass, up the creaking porch stairs, through the screen door and right up to the bedroom. And the bedroom is  _ so dark  _ Adam almost cries with relief, his entire body sagging almost instantaneously.

He’s barely coordinated enough to get his entire body on the bed, but by some miracle he manages. The pillow is so cool, the bed is so soft, the AC unit in the window is blowing blessedly cold air over him, and Ronan sets a glass of water on the bedside table.

He’s already 80% asleep when the bed shifts and suddenly Ronan’s arm is wrapping around his waist and pulling his back against his chest.

“Farm work?” Adam says, like that’s a perfectly clear question. Good thing Ronan’s already mastered the language of not-speaking-coherent-words.

“It’s gonna storm soon,” he answers.

“Opal?”

“She knows where to find me.”

Adam hums. Ronan pulls him in a little closer, presses a kiss to the base of his neck.

“I probably smell,” Adam remembers.

“Oh, you smell like a corpse died in a pile of shit.” Ronan kisses just beneath his ear. “But I don’t give a damn right now.”

“I might puke again,” Adam mumbles.

Ronan sits up on his elbow. “Again?”

“Twice already.”

“Jesus Fuck, Parrish.” But Adam can tell he’s not mad. If anything, he’s pretty sure Ronan’s holding him tighter.

Thunder rumbles far off.

“Car,” Adam says into the pillow. “Left the window open.”

“Took care of it,” Ronan says.

“My stuff?”

“Brought it in already.”

God, Adam loves this man so much. And he’d tell him as much, except he’s pretty sure he’s exceeded his quota of talking for right now, and his head has renewed its throbbing, which means it’s time to sleep. He’ll make it up to Ronan later. They’ve got all summer. Plenty of lazy, hazy mornings, afternoon thunderstorms, and late nights.

Three whole months of vacation.  _ Three.  _ Adam’s never have so much off time in his life.

And after he sleeps, after he drinks his weight in water, after he eats something with  _ some  _ nutritional value, Adam is going to make sure they don’t waste a single second of it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Pls don't operate large machinery (AKA A CAR) after 36 hours of just power naps and microsleeps. Adam Parrish is Not Making Safe Choices In This Fic.


End file.
